


Love Is Not the Victory March

by Ancient_K



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Barricade Day, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, Fluff and Angst, I Tried, On The Barricade, nobody actually dies during it but you know what happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:26:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24567661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ancient_K/pseuds/Ancient_K
Summary: For a minute Enjolras just stood there, staring at the city that deserved so much more. He took a deep breath and let the warm summer air fill him. The images of the Musain and the surrounding buildings imprinted itself in his brain. He wanted to remember this. It was not such a bad place to die.The night before the fall of the barricade.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21





	Love Is Not the Victory March

**Author's Note:**

> So apparently barricade day is a thing around here... so let's see how this goes.
> 
> Hope you enjoy and you're welcome to leave any typos/grammar mistakes that you notice in the comments.

The place where Javert had struck him throbbed with a dull pain. His jaw had already started to swell. Given the time it would turn black and blue before eventually fading to yellow and then nothing. Enjolras did not have time. 

Night had well and truly settled over Paris. The usually bustling city was oddly quiet. It brought back memories of his family's house in the countryside where he spent summers as a child. He and his mother would spend hours sitting in the grass, looking at the stars. 

What would his Mother think of him now? A failed revolutionary, a man who led his friends to their deaths. Would he be buried with the rest of his family? Surely the king would want his body publicly displayed in the center of the city. They would leave it to rot all summer until even the flies refused to touch him. Would his family demand his body be returned to them? Perhaps they have enough influence to have his corpse buried properly. Enjolras imagined his Mother weeping at the sight of her only child with a body full of bullet holes. 

Enjolras would die tomorrow; they all would. It was a well known truth that hung thick in the air.

For a minute he just stood there, staring at the city that deserved so much more. He took a deep breath and let the warm summer air fill him. The images of the Musain and the surrounding buildings imprinted itself in his brain. He wanted to remember this. It was not such a bad place to die. 

His friends, his fellow revolutionaries, and brothers in all but blood surrounded him. He’d sent all those who were willing away. Enjolras wouldn’t force people to die for a lost cause. Blood and water mingled on the cobblestone road.

The energy that rushed through his body earlier that day had dissipated and been replaced with melancholy. The righteous fury that once flowed through his veins has become a fierce resignation to go down fighting because they would not take him alive. The national guard would not drag him in front of Louis-Philippe. If Enjolras was destined to die facing down the barrel of a musket then he would be on his feet in the streets of Paris, not forced onto his knees atop a wooden platform. 

He gazed out over his friends, some slept but most refused. Perhaps everybody wanted to enjoy their last night on this earth, and how could Enjolras be angry at that? Maybe all Enjolras wanted to do was look at the sky and watch the stars. Maybe he wanted to see the sun crest over the skyline one last time, and watch the way inky blue turned to purple, then pink, then orange, and finally the pale blue of daylight. Maybe he wanted to return to his youth, to curl up in his Mother's arms, and let his world narrow to just the two of them. 

Before tonight his life was a never ending whirlwind. He lived quickly and moved confidently. Every minute not dedicated to their cause was a minute wasted. Maybe he should have taken a second to stop and to breathe. Jehan had told him that he would miss his life should he continue the way he did and Combeferre was constantly coaxing him to sleep and eat. They were right. Enjolras was exhausted but to sleep at this moment felt like a betrayal. How could he miss his last opportunity to see the streets that he fought for?

Bravery had been one of his defining characteristics ever since childhood. Now, when presented with his own death, Enjolras was terrified. He clung to life like an indignant child all while looking back with the regret of an old man. What if this was it? Perhaps this was the day Enjolras, his friends, and all they fought for died. Would their dreams die with them? He spoke about others rising up as if it were inevitable all while doubt blackened his heart. Justice is not guaranteed unless people are willing to fight for it. 

They were so close. It wasn’t a revolution built of passion and false hope. They planned out every detail and let the word spread like wildfire. Grantaire had taught him about ancient mythology on a drunken night in his apartment. Enjolras could idolize the power of Achilles and Heracles all he wanted but at this moment he had never felt closer to Icarus. Had his fingertips brushed the sun only to fall back down into the sea?

Grantaire appeared at his side as if he were a ghost. His eyes were rimmed with red and a bottle dangled from his fingertips. 

“Perhaps this is not a horrible way to die.” Grantaire sounded hoarse. “All the alcohol one can drink and nobody will judge you for it.”

Enjolras didn’t respond.

“Your dream of freedom will live on,” Grantaire continued. “Just like you said, others will rise up to take your place.”

“Since when are you the undying optimist?” The words are spoken with more venom than he means. The only thing that Enjolras could picture was the bodies of his friends soaked with blood, terrified in their final moments. This street would forever be tainted by his failure and yet Grantaire, Grantaire of all people, spoke of hope. 

“They will make a martyr of you Apollo,” Grantaire insisted. “The people will remember you and they will fight in your name.” Enjolras just shook his head and brought his hand up to meet Grantaire’s.

“My name will be lost to history,” Enjolras whispered, gentle yet unwavering. Their hands remained clasped together. “But, the citizens of France will not forget our cause. Others will rise to take our place until France is free.” They have to, Enjolras thought. The people did not join them tonight, but eventually, they would fight for their freedom. Did he truly believe the words that he had just spoken? Or was he trying to convince the others more than himself?

Enjolras made the first move. He stepped in slow and kissed Grantaire. Grantaire leaned into it, lips tasting of alcohol. It was not their first time, far from it. And if it was to be their last then Enjolras did not regret it. 

“Do you hate me for this?” Enjolras asked when he pulled away because he had to know. Always the cynic, Grantaire had never truly believed in their cause.

“No,” Grantaire’s face softens, “I do not regret one moment that I spent with you.”

“But do you regret not having more?” 

There was a long pause that Enjolras’s mind filled with barely perceived thoughts and observations. Combeferre was sitting on the ground, bandaging the arm of a man he barely knew. Marius paced their little encampment while Bahorel tried to talk him into taking a break. Bottles were passed around in a somber imitation of the joyous nights spent in a bar.

“I always thought I would die on the streets of Paris,” Grantaire confesses. “However, I had assumed that one day I would drink until there was no pain or pleasure or anything at all. Then that would be it. I would be another body sent to another mass grave.” Grantaire paused and surveyed the area. “I always believed that I would be alone in my final moments.” He traced a strong finger across Enjolras’s cheek. “Now I see that is not true, and I am honored to die with such great people.”

“I am surrounded with the best men I have ever known,” Enjolras agreed. “Including you.” Grantaire looked surprised but eventually offered the signature smirk which Enjolras had come to adore.

Enjolras stared at Grantaire, trying to memorize every part of him. His nose, crooked from having been broken more than once and too big for his face, the way his dark hair curls and nearly obscures his eyes. Grantaire is stronger than Enjolras, with a broader chest and sturdier build yet there is grace. One would not think it from looking at him but Grantaire is quite an excellent dancer when he wants to be. Enjolras can attest that he was shocked at how light on his feet he was when he drank enough to lower his inhibitions but not enough to stumble. Grantaire held up the bottle he was drinking from and silently offered it to Enjolras. He took it, slightly surprised when he felt how heavy it still was. The burn in the back of his throat helped to calm the storm in his mind. As opposed to Grantaire, Enjolras was not one to drink but tonight he made an exception.

Enjolras might not show it but he truly did love Grantaire and the thought of his corpse made him want to vomit.

How many people had already died? How many more would there be? So many were destined to die in a vain attempt for change. Gavroche was only a child and Enjolras had practically walked him to his own execution. He wanted to stay though, that was how Enjolras justified a moral wrong to himself. Despite his age, the little gamin understood the risks and he was willing to die for their cause, Enjolras would honor that. 

Part of Enjolras wondered if he was only here to bear witness to the deaths of his friends. These were the people who shaped him. They taught him about parts of the world he hadn't even thought about. They showed him so many beautiful and powerful things. 

Not even one night ago he had believed that his sole purpose on this earth was to liberate the people of France from the oppression that they lived under. The instant that hope became lost, the moment he realized that he would die on the barricade, his direction seemed lost. His name would become a warning to those who dared defy the monarchy, this barricade would rot away. Some small part of him still yearned for a legacy, even if that desire had simply been beaten into him by his father. For once in his life he wanted Grantaire’s predictions to be correct. 

The stars had begun to fade and the night sky turned a slightly lighter shade of blue. Tomorrow was coming and there was nothing to be done about it. Tomorrow will always come. It was another constant in life, right alongside death and taxes. No matter how tightly he clutched onto his mother and tried to memorize the night sky the dawn would usher in the day and the night would die with it. 

Grantaire had stumbled away and been replaced by Courfeyrac without Enjolras even noticing. 

“I’ll be leaving behind a few shattered hearts, but I trust that they will continue on without me.” The humor in his voice lessened the blow brought on by the words. “This is not a failure Enjolras,” he continued when there was no response. “Others will take our place, we are but one member of the battle that is sure to be won.”

“I pray that you are right.”

“I am.” Courfeyrac pressed a kiss to Enjolras’s cheek and was on his way. Despite all that had happened Enjolras noticed that he’d taken the time to fix his hair and still walked with a slight bounce in his step. An instinctive smile creeps up on his face. 

The first rays of sunshine have begun to appear over the tops of the buildings.

“Beautiful isn’t it?” Jehan materialized beside him, Jehan with so much hope in his eyes. 

“I dare say that a sunrise over Paris has never been so beloved,” Enjolras responded.

“There is beauty in fleeting things. I find it is more rewarding to watch the flowers grow knowing that they shall soon wither. Every second becomes more precious.” 

Enjolras allowed Jehan to enchant him with poetic words to describe the dawn. People said Enjolras had a way with speech yet he had never seen a man name so many colors to describe a sky. Jehan painted a picture of false hope and beauty with nothing but language, and Enjolras was better for it. 

As he walked away from the wall to join his friends at the barricade, Combeferre intercepted him. No words were exchanged between them, he simply pulled Enjolras into a tight hug. Enjolras returned the embrace with an echo of Combeferre’s gentle strength. Their foreheads came together as their eyes locked. Anything that needed to have been said already had been. There are no more goodbyes to make. All there is is a nod and mutual parting and they went to their positions. 

Dawn had turned to day and Enjolras took one last deep breath, letting the summer air cleanse his body. Tomorrow had come and with it the bravery to face the inevitable. It was liberty or death, and Enjolras had made his choice.

**Author's Note:**

> In 1832 an uprising of workers, young people, and refugees became known as the June Rebellion. A constitutional monarchy had been previously established yet the rebels felt as if one king had only been replaced by another. The republican rebels raised a flag with the words "liberty or death." Narrow streets in the center of Paris were barricaded, the last of these barricades fell on June 6th. Although the rebels lost the national guard took heavier casualties. After the uprising the famous painting Liberty Leading the People was taken off of display. 
> 
> The fight for justice has never ended.
> 
> Do you hear the people sing?


End file.
